


Those Who Will Never Return

by KopiChamTeh



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-04
Updated: 2016-07-04
Packaged: 2018-07-20 01:09:01
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,862
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7384975
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/KopiChamTeh/pseuds/KopiChamTeh
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>USUK, a reckless and seemingly aimless Great Escape. The thoughts of nations are chained to that of their people. Yet there are “men” who want to break free, and “men” who want to get away.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Those Who Will Never Return

**Author's Note:**

  * A translation of [The Man Who Will Never Return](https://archiveofourown.org/external_works/211126) by Dead Zone. 



The bar was empty by the time it was close to midnight. Yes, almost empty. Only two or three patrons engaged in quiet conversation in a corner. Outside, the rain was almost like a cataract descending straight from the sky. Bloody weather. The bartender breathed a heavy sigh, although now he could finally enjoy some peaceful solitude with his book. No one would disturb him now, no high-pitched noise pollution from the singer. He took out his crumpled novel, the light so dim that he had to shift to the opposite side of the counter.

But soon came a man. The bartender shot him a glance and put down his book reluctantly. The new patron shook the rainwater off his straight black umbrella, looking rather weary.

“Your order?” the bartender asked, then glanced at him again. “Sir?”

“Beer, thank you.”

The man placed the bill atop the counter. The bartender cut the beer head off the top of the glass with a wooden scraper and slid it across the bar to him.

No one would come to the bar in the dead of night just for a beer, the bartender thought coolly. Perhaps he’s waiting for someone. He ensconced himself back in the opposite side of the counter and retrieved his novel from under an empty cup. He flipped it open and his eyes flickered towards the stranger from afar once more before he resumed reading. The man’s hair did not seem a dyed gold, but the bartender had never seen anyone born with such light, blond hair. Maybe he’s a European. The bartender had never studied the difference between a European and a New Englander, but he could still tell. Probably intuition at work.

The man sipped the liquid lightly and turned his head to look at the pouring rain outside. He squinted his eyes. The bartender saw his irises glint under the light; they seemed to be green. Or blue-green. He slid into a bar stool, novel in hand.

He spent about an hour progressing from “A special Hate song had been composed” to “He knew that sooner or later he would obey O'Brien's summons”. Yet another person walked in from the heavy rain. He heard a squeak from the opening door and made another dog ear.

“Arthur,” said the newly-arrived man to the one at the counter as a greeting of some sort.

“What would you like?” inquired the bartender as he stood up.

“I’ll have a pint of beer.”

He repeated the same action he had done an hour before.

“Nasty weather,” the bartender recognised this voice to belong to the man who had just entered, “even the wipers were completely useless, what with the water literally pouring down on the windscreen and all. Had to drive slow. Have you been waiting for long?”

“No.”

“What are you having? You won’t get drunk again?”

“Not with just _one_ pint.”

The late-arriver laughed. The bartender cut the beer head off the top of the glass and passed it to him. He finally got a good look at the new patron. He was discernibly younger than the man who had arrived first. The young man smiled and thanked the bartender. The bartender noticed his dark blond hair and deep-set eyes. He removed his glasses which were covered in drops of water and put them aside.

“Tissue?” asked the bartender.

“No thanks, I don’t need glasses,” he replied. “What are you reading?”

“ _Nineteen Eighty-Four_.”

“Oh. It’s by Orwell, right?”

“Yep.”

“That book’s his.” The young man smiled again. He was probably referring to the man sitting with him who at the moment happened to glance up at them. There was a sharp glint in his green eyes resembling that of a polished bayonet blade that made the bartender somewhat uneasy.

“It’s not his. It’s mine,” the bartender replied.

“That’s not what I meant, but never mind.” The young man placed the bill atop the counter that had been wiped clean, and let himself be engulfed once again by the shadows on the other side.

It was very late. He checked his watch; half an hour before midnight. Though the thrumming of the rain had begun to cease, it still thundered onto the window panes and raced down in a series of cascades and let in only faint streams of light from the street lamps outside. The air here was surprisingly fresh, without any nauseous, sweaty odour from inebriated men, or the smell of cheap perfume and makeup. Maybe this just had something to do with the time and the godawful weather. He cocked his head; Arthur was gazing at the effervescence of his beer, emerald eyes clouded by weariness.

“Let’s leave after this drink, shall we?” asked the young man. “Where do we go next?”

“No idea. Never thought about it.”

“But we’ll have to make a choice. You have to think about it. We can’t stay here for the rest of our lives.”

“Since when do we have a lifetime for us to take?” retorted the man called Arthur.

The young man was silent for a while, then took a sip from his beer. “Then we run, this is a _Great Escape_ ,” he said. “Leave this damned place. We can go anywhere we want. And never come back.”

“That won’t do, Alfred. That’s too irresponsible of us.”

“But what’s the point of us staying? Surely you understand.”

“I don’t.”

“Hmph, you understand it much better than I do. It’s why you’re all high and mighty toward me. We stay and we’ll let them control our will, then we’ll become emotionless again. Have we actually done anything for them? … If we aren’t allowed to interfere with their decisions and have to let them decide our fate and deny us even our freedom of thought—then what’s the point of us being there anyway?”

Arthur made no reply. He lowered his gaze, sealed his lips and looked away from him. They stayed this way for a long time. Then, “Have you not realised,” Arthur said suddenly, “that we exist only to be mindless tokens? Then there’s the problem: Now I have _sentiment_. That has never happened to me before. Why? What for?”

A man came forth from another corner of the room; he supported himself with a hand on the counter. Judging by his flush, he was thoroughly inebriated.

“Another round of brandy,” he told the bartender. Alfred turned his head and blinked at Arthur, “Brandy?”

“No, thank you,” Arthur was wary at once. “Don’t you dare fuddle me with alcohol then lure me to some other bloody place.”

Alfred chuckled. He looked full of youth and vigour, without even a single wrinkle on his skin as he smiled. Yet there was something that flickered in his eyes—not exactly something _bad_ , just something _not good_. There had not been such a _thing_ a long, long time ago and his eyes should have been the purest blue of all blues. And if Arthur could he would much rather such things never appeared in them.

Yet this was the path that Alfred himself has chosen to walk and the price that Alfred himself has chosen to pay. Arthur thought with jeering hatred. He deserves it just like how I deserved it then. No one else is to blame. He chose to turn himself into an existence without the freedom of thought and I’ve warned him so—so he’ll regret all he wants now.

He looked at Alfred again but his gaze was a mournful one.

“All right, forget it, we shan’t talk about this tonight,” Alfred lifted his glass.

“I imagine we have to.”

“Why? We can talk as we please, what’s there to stop you?”

“We can’t avoid talking about this as long as we remain ourselves. It’s always restraining you. It’s everywhere.”

“You sound like an old man,” he took a huge gulp from his glass. “Besides, who are ‘we’?”

“I’m England and you, America.”

“Tonight I’m Alfred and you, Arthur.”

“That’s easy to say.”

“I meant for it to be,” Alfred continued draining his glass of alcohol, “Otherwise you’d be scared off before we even start. Are you scared?”

“No.”

“That’s the spirit,” Alfred put down the glass. “We’d be overcoming everything we’ve never overcome before and now we've got a whole night for it.”

Alfred stood up, returned the glass and ordered a shot of brandy. The bartender seemed miffed by continuous interruption and he handled the glass so brusquely that some of the liquid spilt onto the counter.

“Don’t get drunk,” Arthur said, watching him.

“Like you do? Hero won’t get drunk with just a single shot.”

Arthur did not say another word. Neither did the young man. They remained in their seats, their backs facing the pouring rain. The streetlight flickered under the assailment of the thunderstorm. The thrum was deafening yet they both felt silence wash over them. One of the three patrons in the corner had fallen into a deep slumber and snoring; the other two were engaged in idle chit-chat with the occasional laughter. They appeared sober enough. The one asleep was not. Regardless, they were happy. No sleepless nights caused by thoughts that came and went of their own accord.

“I love you, Arthur,” Alfred said in between sips of brandy, his voice dripping with melancholy. “I know you don’t really want to listen but I still want to say it.”

“Why this, all of a sudden?”

“‘Our thoughts are fundamentally not controlled by us but by the people. So we could perceive things this way at one moment and then our thoughts would change for ever at the next,’ was what you said. So I’ve got to say it out loud. If my feelings are no longer the same in the next second, how do I prove that they ever were in the first place?”

“Oh,” Arthur felt a tinge of red crawl onto his cheeks. “When did I say that?”

“When I was small. So, do you love me?”

“No. I’m not exactly here to talk about this with you.”

“You are. In the name of our relative freedom tonight, can’t you just tell me your true feelings for once?”

“No.”

“Arthur!”

He felt his cheeks being set aflame. He looked towards Alfred with a frown. Finally he took a sip from his beer, although it seemed more for self-encouragement. He gazed into the pair of blue eyes.

“Fine,” he said, voice hoarse. “I love you.”

The young man heaved a huge sigh of relief, his lips warping into a small smile. But Arthur lowered his forehead into his hands as he tried hard not to look at that face.

“I love you … Alfred,” he repeated softly. “But I’m scared that something will go wrong, like last time.”

“Last time? What ‘last time’?”

“When you were small. I loved you then too. But only a morsel of that affection came from me and most of it was borne out of their desire for you.”

“Oh,” answered the young man. “I seemed to have felt it too.”

“You should have.”

“Why?”

“Otherwise there won’t be today.” Arthur smiled. A rare one it was, albeit with the usual pinch of mockery. “You think you can tell the difference between the humans’ emotions and your own?”

“I am human.”

“You are not. None of us are.”

“This is a form of human existence too.”

“Where did you get that from?”

“It’s the truth. Say, why do beings like us look like humans but not a horse or a bird?”

“Right, I shan’t argue with you.”

“And of course I can tell the difference,” Alfred continued downing his brandy. “I know I love you as Alfred and not out of a desire for the British Isles or something. Ain’t that clear as day?”

Arthur thrust him a glance. “So I’ve got to start watching out for you,” he said.

“Seriously?”

The man chuckled. He rose to his feet clutching the glass and approached the bartender on the other side. “Another round of beer,” he said. The bartender was less tetchy this time; he briskly refilled the glass and handed it to him. Then he saw the trio in the corner; two of them were preparing to leave but the other was still fast asleep. They failed to rouse him.

“Now what?” one of them asked. The other shook his head, “He doesn’t deserve a slap to the face just yet. He is a nice guy. I’m afraid he's just too heartbroken.”

“Leave him here, we’re not closing till early morning,” called out the bartender. “As long as he knows how to get home.”

Assured, the two left, soon disappearing into the rain. It was still roaring outside, showing no sign of exhaustion. Arthur retreated into the drapes of darkness. As soon as he had sat down he felt a pair of hands pulling at him, the grasp so firm that his resistance was rendered futile; then Alfred cupped the back of his head, leaned over and pulled him in for a kiss. This kiss seemed halfway decent. Tongues entangled, they found better angles with each tilt of head, each press of lips. He almost melted into Alfred’s pleasant caress, each kiss and lick emanating blissful warmth. Then he grabbed Alfred’s collar.

“No, we shan’t.” He drew in a deep breath and gave the younger man a shove. “Are you drunk?”

“’Course not. I’m perfectly sober.”

“You shouldn’t be doing this.”

“Shouldn’t?” Alfred asked. “What are you worried about? Tonight we’re free. Whatever we do, no one will ever know.”

“We are not supposed to have feelings like this. This is too abnormal.”

“That ain’t fair. We are gifted with perception, so why not feelings of our own too?”

Alfred led them into another kiss. It was more aggressive this time, exchanging and blending the fragrance of beer and brandy. “It’s nothing to do wi’ fairness,” Arthur panted, “Once you can’t tell ’em apart—” They moved in tandem to find another angle and quickly leaned in once again. He could hear harsh breaths amplified by proximity. “The consequences ain’t gon’ be so good.”

Alfred swept past his upper jaw and soon he released his lips and moved down to nip and nibble at his chin and neck. “In what sense?”

“Can’t you let me rest my voice?” Arthur asked, tipping his head back.

“They can’t hear us,” Alfred muttered, “they can’t hear us with the rain. How are the consequences not so good?”

“You know, when those desires become hatred,” he closed his eyes, body tilted slightly backwards. “It’s like being controlled; you start wanting to _kill_ ,” he concluded briefly, exhaling the last few syllables in a nasal tone that quickly morphed into soft moans.

“Just today, please?”

Arthur’s breathing quickened ever so slightly.

“You hear that, just today. You’ll be back in London by tomorrow.”

“Hm.”

“I’ll go back too. But today we’re still free.”

“Hm.”

“Let’s go.”

“Where to?”

“Just come with me.”

Alfred removed the arm that was supporting the back of his head. He sat back to where he was and for a while he stared into the last bit of brandy in the glass.

So, what’s the point of their existence? Alfred frowned. This is a petrifying feeling: You do not have a past because you cannot retain your emotions from the past. All that is left in your memory is a nondescript chronology of events. You can’t be sure whether you will love or hate someone in the next second. Only because they had much longer lifespans than their people and their people formed the malleable grey matter of their brains and their thoughts and opinions morphed at a disconcerting pace. He could no longer recall his hatred when he directed his bayonet at England so he would probably not remember any love as well. What is the point of all this?

He returned the glass. The countertop was so burnished that he could see himself in it.

Stop thinking about it, he told himself, not today. There is plenty of time for that later but don’t waste any time today. You just have to take him out and away, even if it’s just for a single night.

Outside, the frigid rain was heavy still, a waterfall gracing the streets. Alfred looked down at his watch; a quarter to one. They still had plenty of time. He was staring at Arthur’s back but his mind had already wandered off to tomorrow and the day after tomorrow and every day in the future when all they exchanged would be customary handshakes and hollow gazes. They would forget everything and continue down their paths. Stop thinking about it, he said. You have it now and that is all your whole life is; now. It is good enough that you love him right now. Stop thinking. Don’t go down that path; you’ll never reach the end of it.

Arthur took his umbrella and pushed the door open. The headlamps of a car flashed in the distance.

“Would you ever want to return?” asked Alfred.

“We can never,” answered Arthur.

They opened the umbrella.

**Author's Note:**

> A/N:  
> I am not really fond of things like Free Talk… but a piece of writing like this warrants at least a modicum of explanation, I guess?
> 
> The personification of nations, to me, is not a light-hearted topic, since for obvious reasons such beings must lead rather traumatic lives. I’d like to think that the thoughts of nations are controlled by humans and not the other way round. Hence their aversion to love and hatred.
> 
> Here, America and England realised that they’d managed to slip away from the control of humans. Then they plotted a “Great Escape” for one night only. I tried to use less environmental and thought description, and replace them with simple dialogue to paint the conflicting characters of the two “humans”. Not very successful, but for the moment I’m just going to upload it as a birthday gift to America.
> 
> *“You have it now and that is all your whole life is; now”: quoted from Chapter 13 of For Whom the Bell Tolls by Ernest Hemingway.  
> *Rain symbolises the dismal oppression from humans; perpetual, and sinister.  
> *Form of human existence: A reflection of Alfred’s pursuit of the “freedom” of a normal human being. Arthur’s answers imply similar views and feelings about this, but he doesn’t approve of taking risks.  
> *Those Who Will Never Return: There’s a bit of a hidden connotation in it, you can attempt to figure it out if you are interested.  
> *For 7.4  
> *For the days upon which we can never look back
> 
>  
> 
> T/N:  
> Happy Independence Day!
> 
> Read _For Whom the Bell Tolls_ and _Nineteen Eighty-Four ___and I think you’ll get a better idea why things are the way they are in this story. Still great without them though. The “ _Great Escape_ ”, as clarified by the author, is a reference to a song of the same name.
> 
> The author apparently wrote this in a Hemingway style that I couldn’t quite bring out in my translation. Maybe I’ll try again in the future :P The setting is ambiguous on purpose.
> 
> You are welcomed to point out any errors, or suggest improvements. Thank you for reading!
> 
> Translation proofread by gilbertsfivemeters


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